


A Meeting of the Minds

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 07:13:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6228805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras, Combeferre, and Bahorel spend a night in jail after a rally gone awry, and meet a particular gamin for the first time. Meanwhile Courfeyrac spends the evening with the remaining Amis, trying (and failing) not to fret. Warmth, friendship, and hilarity ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Meeting of the Minds

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this last year in honor of a DC Les Mis meetup with wonderful friends, posted it to Tumblr and then neglected to post it here!

**March, 1830**

In the space of thirty seconds or so, Enjolras makes two mistakes. The sound of the sudden riot around him roars in his ears, and everything feels as if it’s happening in slow motion, a whir of color and shouting and movement.

He puts his hand on the police officer’s shoulder.

His first mistake.

He steps directly between the officer and Jean Prouvaire.

His second mistake.

He realizes these are mistakes when the officer slams his truncheon into his chest, smacking his ribs and sending pain vibrating through him.

“You foolhardy boy,” the officer says. “You’ll be arrested with the leader for that.”

“I _am_ the leader,” Enjolras says, gritting his teeth.

“All the better then,” the officer replies. “I suppose I can’t tell you long-haired rabble rousers apart.”

Enjolras feels Prouvaire’s hand rest lightly on his back, waiting for direction, the officer’s eyes glued on both of them. No matter how shy he is at first, he is intrepid, and Enjolras knows his friend could certainly take care of himself if arrested, but if the police are looking for the leader, Enjolras won’t let Jehan stand in his place.

“Well if you’re going to arrest me, then arrest me,” Enjolras says, hoping to distract the officer away from Prouvaire. “I don’t really have all day.”

It works.

“Enough of your sass!” the officer shouts, pulling out his handcuffs. “Give me your hands.”

Out of the corner of his eye Enjolras watches Courfeyrac seize Jehan, who seems intent on getting arrested along with Enjolras on matter of principle. Courfeyrac waits until he sees Enjolras’ tiny gesture with the hand that’s hidden behind his back, signaling they should run. In the melee of workers, students, and ABC members, the officer is so intent on Enjolras that he doesn’t notice.

“ _Hands_ ,” the officer says again, taking them both before Enjolras even has a chance to comply, the sound of the metal locking closed around his wrists. He’d suspected he’d be arrested eventually, but this is the first time it’s happened in reality. They’d done a solid job of escaping the clutches of the police so far, though there had been close calls, which now appear to have caught up with them. “See if a night in jail puts your revolutionary _spirit_ in its place.”

It takes an immense amount of effort for Enjolras not to roll his eyes. Instead he surveys the room, seeing the tumult dying down. The larger group of Amis had been speaking to a mixed group of students and workers, only to find a mole in the midst of the crowd. Suddenly police were streaming in, and everything, as Bahorel might say, went to hell. He scans the crowd, looking to see how many arrests there are, looking out for seven people in particular. He is unsurprised to see Bahorel’s wrists cuffed in front of him, but he sees Combeferre’s are too, and he wonders briefly how that occurred. Before he can ponder any further he’s being led out of the room and tossed into the back of a fiacre with his two friends. Bahorel nearly looks pleased. Combeferre looks concerned, but overall, annoyed, brows furrowed so low they almost touch.

“In the interest of full disclosure,” Enjolras says without preamble, keeping his voice to a whisper so they aren’t overheard. “I’d honestly thought it would be Courfeyrac who got arrested with me. This, while not absolutely unexpected, is not quite how I imagined it would go.”

Combeferre shrugs, gesturing at the officer outside, indicating they’ll talk as soon as they reach their rather unfortunate destination. “Stop looking so proud, Bahorel,” he adds.

“What?” Bahorel asks, feigning innocence. “They wouldn’t be arresting us if they weren’t afraid of what we were saying, Combeferre. Look at it that way.”

“Hmm,” Combeferre says, a smile flickering at his lips. “Fair point.”

The rest of their carriage ride passes in silence, but though Enjolras finds himself calm, he also knows he could do without the feeling of metal digging into the skin of his wrists. That, and he fears his ribs might be broken, given that it feels as if there is fire curling up and down his side and into his chest, pushing against his skin as if it’s trying to break free of its fleshy prison. They arrive at the jail in ten minutes or so, and after a few moments the three of them have their handcuffs removed, the sound of the door clanging closed behind them. Unfamiliar situation as this is, Enjolras lets Bahorel lead the way.

“How long are we meant to stay, then?” Bahorel asks with just enough sass that it’s noticeable, but not enough for the officer to be bothered with reprimanding him.

“Overnight, if you behave,” the officer says. “Longer if you cause trouble. So perhaps consider keeping quiet.”

With that, the officer goes back upstairs, the door slamming shut behind him.

“Well,” Bahorel says. “He was rude.”

“Aren’t they all?” Enjolras grumbles, one hand on his throbbing ribs, a movement Combeferre catches.

“Well, actually not all,” Bahorel says. “Most of them, I grant you, but a fair few are disgruntled with their treatment. I’ve gotten off easy out of a couple of brawls that way. It might not hurt to speak to the few I know at some point. Have them on our side.”

Enjolras nods in response, too focused the increasing pain in his ribs to answer properly just yet.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says with an air of danger in his tone. “Did you neglect to mention you were injured?”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, voice going higher. “I…suppose I did.” He winces. Breathing, he realizes belatedly now that he’s out of shock, particularly deep breathing, hurts rather ferociously now that he’s standing.

“Ah, did you miss it, Combeferre?” Bahorel asks. “He took rather a nasty hit with an officer’s truncheon. Right in the chest.”

“I _did_ miss that, yes,” Combeferre says, unable to truly be irritated Enjolras didn’t mention it. He grows gentler, the reprimand gone. “Here, lift up your shirt a moment. It might be better for you to leave your waistcoat and jacket off, actually.”

Enjolras does as asked, removing his cravat, jacket and waistcoat, watching Combeferre’s eyes flit across the injury.

“I’m just going to feel your ribs, all right?” he says, apologetic. “It will hurt.”

High tolerance for pain or no, that _does_ hurt, and Enjolras shuts his eyes, trying to remain still.

“Hmmm,” Combeferre says, looking at the bruise already starting to run from Enjolras’ chest down to his ribs. “I don’t believe they’re broken, luckily, but they are badly bruised. And I don’t suppose they’ll give us any ice or Laudanum down here,” he says, anxious frustration slicing into his tone. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to stay abed a few days when we’re out of this wretched place, my friend.”

Normally Enjolras might argue. He _knows_ he would argue, but the pain when he breathes prevents him from doing so, and he nods. He’d actually broken his wrist as a boy when he’d fallen off his horse, and somehow bruised ribs hurt much, much worse.

“Lesson number one,” Bahorel says with the air of a sage imparting his wisdom to a group of protégées, steering Enjolras carefully toward the cot and laying him down on it. “Do not touch a police officer.”

“He was going to arrest Jehan,” Enjolras offers by way of explanation, lifting his head as Combeferre rolls the thin blanket into a pillow to prop him up. “I wasn’t trying to attack him, I merely wanted to correct the mistake. Jehan shouldn’t have to spend a night in jail merely for being accidentally mistaken for me.”

“And he hit you with his truncheon because fighting had broken out and he wanted a reason,” Bahorel says. “Besides, you shouldn’t worry about Jehan: I suspect our gentle poet could also potentially kill a man with a quill, if he ended up here and someone attacked him.”

Enjolras and Combeferre raise their eyebrows simultaneously in silent question.

“He reads strange books,” Bahorel mutters.

“I know Prouvaire can take care of himself,” Enjolras says. “I will never forget seeing him pull that chair straight out from under that man in the Corinthe who said something nasty to Feuilly. But I didn’t want him being taken in under the guise of being me. But next time I shall not touch the officer, I promise. Well. I shall promise to _try_.”

“It wouldn’t have stopped you from getting arrested this time, unfortunately,” Bahorel says, patting his shoulder. “But you might not have these bruised ribs. It is not your fault of course. His use of force was ridiculous. Though, given the climate…”

“The city’s been extremely tense since Charles dissolved parliament and postponed elections,” Enjolras says. “Though his _majesty_ has not been able to pass the censorship laws he would like, at least.”

“He is trying his best to suppress journalism, however,” Combeferre says, sitting down on the edge of the cot next to Enjolras.

“So how did you end up getting arrested, Combeferre?” Enjolras asks.

“I too, made the unfortunate mistake of touching an officer,” Combeferre says. “I was trying to help an injured textile worker and threw the officer’s hand off in the heat of the moment, not even looking to see who it was.”

“Ah,” Enjolras says, smiling a little. “That does sound like you. Courfeyrac will say he’s rubbed off on you, though. Or perhaps I have.”

“Well,” Combeferre says, wry, but fond. “Both of those things are decidedly true.”

Whatever Bahorel’s reply might have been is cut off by the sound of the door opening upstairs, the sounds of voices and a scuffle very apparent. One is the voice of an officer and the other is the voice of what sounds to Enjolras’ ears like a young boy.

“Settle down, you little brat,” comes the voice of same officer who locked them in their cell.

“You’re the one who needs to settle down!” the other voice shouts back, and there’s the sound of shoes dragging on the smooth concrete of the stairs as if the offender is refusing to walk properly.

Enjolras, Combeferre, and Bahorel share a glance, then turn toward the pair as they come into view. Enjolras finds his instincts were right: the boy can’t be more than 10, and small for his age at that.

“Here,” the officer says, unlocking their door. “Share a cell with the _revolutionaries_ , I’m sure you’ll learn more bad habits.”

“Pardon me, officer,” Combeferre says, his scathing tone and his polite words leaving a confused expression upon the officer’s face. “But is it your habit to arrest mere children?”

“Not generally,” the officer shoots back slamming the door for effect. “But Gavroche here, well…he’s a bit of a problem, and not only did he steal food from a cart, he was directing two other boys to steal too, and he got into a fight with the arresting officer.”

“You’re arresting a child for stealing _food_?” Enjolras asks, feeling the familiar, always underlying outrage that lies just underneath the surface bubbling up and brimming over the edge.

“You’re arresting him for attacking an officer?” Bahorel echoes. “You are afraid of a _boy_?”

“Quiet,” the officer growls. “Or I’ll send Inspector Javert down here to deal with you, and you won’t enjoy it.”

With that the officer leaves, striding purposefully up the stairs, a great deal of self-importance in his step.

“You wouldn’t want to deal with Inspector Javert,” the boy called Gavroche mumbles, dusting off his sleeves as if he’s ridding himself of the officer’s touch. “He’s an ass. What are you all in here for, anyhow?”

“Starting a riot,” Bahorel says, proud, sticking out his hand to the boy.

“Bahorel,” Combeferre chides, but Enjolras cannot suppress a small chuckle.

Gavroche studies Bahorel for a moment, a reasonable mistrust in his eyes before there’s a spark of admiration, and he puts his hand in Bahorel’s much larger one, shaking firmly.

“Your name’s Gavroche then?” Bahorel asks, leaning back against the bars and crossing his arms over his chest.

“It’s the only one I’ve,” Gavroche answers, seeming largely undisturbed by the fact that he’s in jail. “You lot?”

“Bahorel,” Bahorel replies, jabbing his thumb in his own direction. “Though you might have heard Combeferre say that already. He’s the one with the glasses. Enjolras is the one with blonde hair who should be _laying down_ due to his badly bruised ribs,” Bahorel says, glaring over at Enjolras.

“Now Combeferre and Joly are rubbing off on you,” Enjolras mutters, but lays back down when his ribs scream even louder in protest. “Nice to meet you, Gavroche.”

“Same,” Gavroche answers reaching out to shake Enjolras and Combeferre’s hands in turn. “So you’re rebels, or something?”

“In a society, of sorts,” Bahorel answers, vague, but to Enjolras’ eyes, the young boy is hanging on to his every word. “Not much we can say in this damn place, I’m afraid.”

“Well how’d you end up starting a riot?” Gavroche presses. “Surely you can answer that.”

“It wasn’t a riot exactly,” Combeferre tries.

“Combeferre,” Bahorel says, raising his eyebrows.

“Well it wasn’t _intended_ to be a riot,”

“We were speaking to a group…” Enjolras begins.

“About overthrowing the king?” Gavroche asks, delighted.

 “I…” Enjolras pauses. “Well, in part, yes. We were having a discussion about the economy, and one of the people turned out to be a police mole,” Enjolras interjects. “I’m certain too, that it was one of our students. I’m just not certain who.”

“And the police came?” Gavroche asks, excitement in his eyes. “Did you get into a fist-fight with them?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Bahorel says, smirking.

Gavroche’s eyes light up.

“What happened to you?” Gavroche asks, gesturing at Enjolras. “Are you just a bad fighter?”

“No,” Enjolras says, realizing how defensive he sounds in the face of a child’s inquiry. “I got hit in the chest with a truncheon.”

“So you are a bad fighter.”

“ _No_ , I….”

“He’s not,” Bahorel says, stepping in. “He’s very good, actually. As much as I’d love to tease to the contrary. Taught him myself. But as you might have realized from ending up in here, attacking the police isn’t always wise unless absolutely necessary.”

Gavroche considers, then shrugs his shoulders, nodding.

“Can you teach _me_ to fight?”

“Perhaps, my fine young man,” Bahorel says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Perhaps.”

“You know,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras sees a plan forming in his eyes. “We are often looking for trustworthy messengers to deliver word across the city. Could you do that?”

“I could!” Gavroche exclaims. “I definitely could.” His expression loses its merriment for a moment, and grows serious. “I want to help. Heck, I even know how to shoot.”

Enjolras does not want to consider how Gavroche knows that, but if he’s a gamin, then Enjolras is sure he knows and sees things no child ever should, no matter how mature they are.

“Let’s stick to the messages for now, shall we?” Enjolras says, kind.

Gavroche smiles at the three of them. It’s small, and the trust he’s showing is tentative, but that is no small thing for a child who has no reason to trust anyone.

“The other two children the officer mentioned…” Bahorel starts, pleased as Gavroche takes a seat next to him on the ground.

“Two little gamin I took in as my own, teachin ‘em things,” Gavroche says. “Hopefully they’ll be all right without me tonight.”

Worry lines his face for a moment, and Enjolras shares a look with Combeferre, their anger in tune with each other at this injustice, anger at a world that would shut its doors on three boys who want nothing more than food, a decent place to sleep, and someone to look out for them.

“Well if you’re their teacher,” Bahorel says, looking up at his friends before meeting Gavroche’s eyes. “I’m certain they’ll be just fine.”

Gavroche grins.

* * *

“They’re in _jail_ , Joly,” Courfeyrac repeats for the third time. “ _Jail_.”

“I know,” Joly says, soothing. “I’m worried too.”

“Who knows how long they could be there!”

“The officer I spoke to said we could pick them up in the morning,” Joly answers, eyes darting back and forth in time with Courfeyrac’s pacing. Courfeyrac’s tension eases a little at the calm in Joly’s voice, but worry still pervades his heart. For all his general, yet strangely cheerful worrying, Joly has steady hands in a crisis. “Unless they behave in such a way so that the officers see fit to keep them longer, which I suppose isn’t out of the question, but…”

“How does one go about picking one’s best friends up from jail?” Courfeyrac asks, feeling far more frantic than he likes. “I followed our plans _exactly_ today when things went wrong, I could recite writings of revolutionaries’ past from memory, probably. Perhaps I can’t recite the _Rights of Man and Citizen_ by heart, but I could recite paragraphs. I even know the best type of materials to build a barricade. I can shoot almost as well as Combeferre, now. I am _excellent_ at recruiting people. I can think quickly in the moment but I don’t even know the protocol for picking Enjolras and Combeferre up from _jail_. Do they have to sleep on the floor? Will they be cold? Will I need to sign something? There are too many things to consider.”

At this, Joly wraps an arm around Courfeyrac’s shoulders, stopping him mid-pace and gently forcing him to sit down. “My friend, I don’t believe there is a protocol to picking them up. You simply go get them. We’ll all go, don’t worry. It will be all right, I’m certain.” He runs a hand up and down Courfeyrac’s back, and Courfeyrac smiles ever so slightly.

The two look up at the sound of Grantaire and Bossuet’s voices coming from the kitchen.

“Not that I mind all of you coming here after a rally gone bad,” Grantaire says, oddly half pleased and half whining. “But I’m rather unprepared.”

“Well we _would_ have sent a carrier pigeon ahead,” Bossuet says, good-natured sarcasm wrapped around every word. “But we were rather preoccupied with three of our own getting arrested. And there being a bit of a riot, and all.”

There’s the sound of dishes crashing, and Joly gets up.

“Jehan,” Grantaire’s voice grumbles. “Since when were you clumsy?”

“Ah my apologies, Grantaire,” Prouvaire says. “Slippery hands, sometimes.”

“It’s all right,” Grantaire says, sincere. “It’s just one bowl. My least favorite, as it happens. Now you’ve rid me of it.”

“I’m just pleased it was not me doing the breaking,” Bossuet says.

Joly turns back to Courfeyrac, still with a smile. “I’m going to help them carry in the food and wine, all right? Perhaps Feuilly might take my place a moment?”

Courfeyrac watches Feuilly turn from his place at the window, offering them both a small smile.

“Certainly,” he says, and Joly puts a quick hand on his shoulder before heading toward the kitchen.

Courfeyrac watches Joly go, then turns back to Feuilly, who looks at him with an easy, judgment free expression, and Courfeyrac feels some of his stress melt away.

“I am being dramatic, I know,” Courfeyrac says, holding his hand out to Feuilly, an offer of comfort he suspects both of them need, but Feuilly is a bit too shy to initiate. Feuilly takes it, and his hand, Courfeyrac notes, is warm. “But I feel it is my prerogative, tonight. Though I hope to not worry everyone too much. We are all worried, after all.”

“We are,” Feuilly says. “But I understand why you might be even more so. I’m certain Enjolras and Combeferre will be all right. They’re both capable of taking care of themselves, and besides, Bahorel is with them.” Feuilly can’t help but grin at this. “And he, well. He’s been through this before.”

“Very true,” Courfeyrac says. “I suppose they’d be a formidable trio, wouldn’t they? Bahorel’s sheer size, Enjolras’ ability to take someone down with one move, and Combeferre’s aptitude for dismantling someone’s argument in a single sentence. Quite a mix.”

“Indeed, my friend,” Feuilly says. “Indeed.”

Feuilly doesn’t look away, expectant, knowing there is more before Courfeyrac can even speak, but he doesn’t pressure him.

“I always knew this was a risk,” Courfeyrac says, his voice low and soft. “I know this one night is no large matter. But sometimes it makes me consider…” he stops, unwilling, just now, to entertain the bloody thoughts that sometimes enter his dreams, filled with gunfire and blood and fighting, the sunrise red as it dawns, death and hope and sacrifice ushering in the new world they work so hard to bring about. A better world.

“I know,” Feuilly says. “Believe me. I do. This is a family such as I’ve not had since I was a child.”

“I do not regret,” Courfeyrac says. “I couldn’t.”

“No,” Feuily says. “I couldn’t either.”

“And honestly,” Courfeyrac says, looking back at Feuilly again. “I rather expected to be the one who got arrested with Enjolras, and Combeferre would be the one to come retrieve us, no doubt with a snarky comment in hand. I suppose Combeferre is only the sensible one until rather abruptly, he’s not.” This thought causes Courfeyrac to grin. “Perhaps you are truly the sensible one among us all, Feuilly. I shall have to tease Combeferre forever about this. Next time he teases me about throwing things in the fire I shall simply remind him it was _he_ who spent a night in jail. But first I will have to hug him into submission. Then I shall tease him.”

“You might want to hold off hugging Enjolras into submission,” Feuilly points out. “I saw him get smacked with a truncheon.”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac frowns, worried. “He I shall have to force to bed.”

“Mmm easier said than done, there,” Feuilly says, fond. “Though I’ve heard bruised ribs are rather nasty with pain, so perhaps even Enjolras will have to relent, in this case.”

There’s a pause, some quiet, and Courfeyrac and Feuilly listen to their friends banter on the other side of the door. For the first time in at least an hour, Courfeyrac feels his heart ease it’s erratic beating.

“ _No_ , Joly, do not carry more than two things,” Grantaire is saying. “You’ll break something.”

“So protective of your dishware now, are we?” Bossuet says, and Courfeyrac can practically hear him raising his eyebrows.

“My stemware are like my children,” Grantaire says, matter of fact. “And my singlestick. And my easel, though it’s rather a neglected child, I suppose.”

At this, Courfeyrac snorts, unable to stop himself, the sound of Feuilly laughing beside him washes away some of the prickling fear of the moment. Could he choose, he’d be right beside Enjolras and Combeferre in whatever drafty cell they’re in, but as it is, he is grateful for the friends around him. The others emerge from the kitchen, and Grantaire stops in front of him, worry passing over his eyes that he replaces with a sardonic grin.

“Here you go,” he says, handing over the glass with the most wine. “I was saving this for myself, but I suspect you need it more.”

“Much thanks, R,” Courfeyrac replies, taking the glass and raising it in Grantaire’s direction.

Everyone settles down with their wine, soup, and bread. Feuilly stays at Courfeyrac’s side and Bossuet sits on the other, elbowing him softly in the ribs. There’s the definite sense of three of their own missing, and after a beat, Prouvaire addresses the spaces in the room shaped like Enjolras, Combeferre, and Bahorel. He looks around at all of them, but his gaze, always so piercing as he if knows some kind of secret of the universe the others aren’t yet privy to, lands on Courfeyrac.

“They’ll be all right, Courfeyrac,” he says, brushing one of the light brown strands out of his eyes. He’s decided to grown his hair long, at present. “Besides, Bahorel assured me he wouldn’t let Enjolras and Combeferre get into any trouble.”

“Bahorel promised _what?_ ” Joly says, laughing so much he almost spits out his soup.

“Fair point,” Jehan says, smiling now. “But he planned for this, assuming at least some of us would get arrested at some point. He imagined Enjolras would. Perhaps you, Courfeyrac. Or me.” He arches an eyebrow in amusement. “Though I admit Combeferre is a bit of a wild card. But I’m sure it will be fine.”

“Somehow,” Bossuet says. “I think we should have seen it coming with Combeferre. Like a slow fuse, isn’t he?”

“Get out of way when the explosion comes,” Courfeyrac adds. “Enjolras and I have discussed this also. I suppose I shouldn’t worry about Enjolras getting into any physical tussles, anyhow, his ribs are too bruised for that, I imagine.”

At this, Joly sighs. “I might as well be pre-emptive and go to the chemist in the morning and procure some Laudanum myself,” he says. “Otherwise he’ll be up, oh, I don’t even know. Doing anything but laying down on principle. Normally I couldn’t win a wrestling match against him, but perhaps in this case, I could, since he has a weakness. If it keeps him in bed, I’d do it.”

At this image, the whole room laughs uproariously, and Courfeyrac feels his spirit lift a little, chasing away the worry gnawing at his chest. Normally after a stressful day like this he’d insist on staying at Enjolras and Combeferre’s and they would consent with two smiles that are shades of each other. They’d inevitably stay up until the wee hours, eventually falling asleep on various pieces of furniture in the main room. Tonight, he knows in the way members of a family do, that they’ll all stay here together, and for that, he is immensely grateful.

The next morning not long after the sun rises, Courfeyrac, though decidedly normally not a morning person, leads the gaggle of Amis toward the jail where they’d been told Enjolras, Combeferre, and Bahorel were being held, only to be met with the faces of their friends already emerging, accompanied by a young boy Courfeyrac feels like he’s seen before around the city. Combeferre, Enjolras and Bahorel stop in their tracks. There is a half-smile on Combeferre’s face, eyebrows popping over the tops of his glasses, and he holds his arms out to the side, ready for Courfeyrac’s inevitable embrace.

At this, Courfeyrac runs, nearly crashing into Combeferre for miscalculating his speed, throwing his arms around him.

“Well then,” Combeferre says, voice muffled. “I suppose you’re pleased to see us, then.”

“Oh, shut up,” Courfeyrac says as Combeferre returns the hug. “I was worried. And expect much teasing for you being the one who ended up in jail, and not me.”

“Oh,” Combeferre says, affectionate. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. You can’t hug Enjolras, I’m afraid, he’s a bit beaten up.”

Courfeyrac finally lets go, turning toward Enjolras.

“Not surprised I ended up in jail, then?” he asks, lips flickering upward.

“Oh my dear friend,” Courfeyrac says, indulgent as he puts a hand on Enjolras’ cheek. “No. No I’m not.”

Bahorel, who is busy being poked and prodded by Joly, releases a bark of laughter at this. 

“Ahhhh,” Enjolras protests, hand going to his side. “Please for the love of Marat do not make me laugh.”

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says. “I have never heard an expression that is so very… well, you.” With that, he pecks the side of Enjolras’ head and grasps his hand for a moment, not letting go as his gaze falls to the young boy standing awkwardly to the side.

“And who might you be, my fine young man?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Gavroche,” the boy responds, sticking out his hand, which Courfeyrac takes. “Were you lot in the riot, too?”

“We were,” Courfeyrac says. “Though luckily did not end up in jail like our friends.”

“We met Gavroche last night,” Bahorel adds. “We thought he might an excellent addition to our group for delivering messages across the city.”

“A very solid plan,” Courfeyrac agrees. “What do you say to breakfast with us, Gavroche?”

“Ah,” Joly says, raising a finger. “We need to tend to Enjolras. While he’s actually _willing_.”

“I heard that, Joly,” Enjolras says.

“I am perfectly aware you did, dear chief,” Joly responds, and Bossuet hugs his middle, near to bursting with laughter at Joly’s tone and Enjolras’ expression. “You were intended to.”

“Well I shall take a few of you and go retrieve breakfast and bring it back and Gavroche can join us,” Courfeyrac replies. “Does that sound amenable to everyone?”

There is a murmur of assent, and they are just about to go accomplish their tasks when Bahorel spins suddenly on his heel.

“Courfeyrac, you did not even ask if I was all right,” he says, offended.

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says, rolling his eyes. “I knew you’d be fine, Bahorel. Come now. Would you like a hug as well?”

“Are we not a democratic group striving for equality?” Bahorel asks. “Why, the reason we ended up in this mess was for talking about economic inequality and wages, and here you are, not showing equality of affection for all of your friends who spent the night in jail.”

“There you have me,” Courfeyrac says, going over and upon attempting to hug Bahorel, finds himself at the other end of a rather merciless hand tussling his curls.

“You absolute _fiend_ ,” Courfeyrac says, pulling himself free as Gavroche laughs, clearly already feeling at home among them as he watches their antics. “Oh, I shall get revenge for that and dye one of your waistcoats.”

“On pain of death,” Bahorel shoots back. He looks over at Gavroche, grinning again. “You shall come with us to Grantaire’s for breakfast.”

At this, Gavroche looks immensely pleased.

“Can a man not even have his own _apartment_ to himself?” Grantaire asks, but does not truly protest, obviously pleased.

“No,” Feuilly and Bossuet say simultaneously.

One more chorus of laughter, and the group splits, several going off to Grantaire’s, the others going to retrieve breakfast for them all. Courfeyrac looks behind him once more, watching Combeferre and Joly watch Enjolras walk, smiling at the two doctors and their patient. Jean Prouvaire is talking to Enjolras, but Courfeyrac can’t hear what he’s saying. Feuilly falls into step with Courfeyrac, who links their arms.

All in all, he thinks, picking his two best friends up from jail hadn’t been so terrible after all.


End file.
